


I Grow Tired of This Body

by crearibir



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-09 22:47:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18926530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crearibir/pseuds/crearibir
Summary: The Phantom finally has a face he can look upon in a mirror, and he rejoices. Now all that is left is to show his Master...





	I Grow Tired of This Body

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely me coping with that bishounen ascension. Also just trying to get a feel for his character and writing a character with Mental Pollution. Enjoy.

It is odd to not hear the gentle scraping of claws as he raises a hand and presses it against the mirror. It is strange to reach back and not feel tattered edges on his cape. It is utterly unfamiliar to not see half of a bone-white mask covering half of his face as he examined himself in the mirror.

There should be a profound feeling of utter joy in his being at the lack of a malformed, hideous face staring back at him, but instead there's only a grim sense of satisfaction. He accomplished what had to be done so that Master would be able to look upon him and not revolt as his beloved Songstress had before. But…

Gloved hands traced the side of his face he was familiar with. The side he presented to all those around him. And then, hesitantly, he felt the side usually hidden away. A strand of black hair was looped around his finger. Fingers were pressed to that pale skin he expected to slowly rot and turn yellow before his very eyes. Finally, he grazed those lips that had somehow not killed his beloved Christine when she dared to kiss them. The poisonous deformity was beaten. It was gone. He was free.

And yet.

It was not as though he was unfamiliar with the concept of phantom pains. A longing for a limb not there anymore. A ghost still attached to you no matter how hard you tried to shake it off and embrace your new body. But to miss that which made him the absolute scum of society?

Perhaps he missed it. Yes, every time he could bring himself to look into a mirror without a mask, that wretched, disgusting half would always be there to greet him. Though sometimes when he recalled the memory, it was a completely corpse-like face that would be sullenly staring back at him. That deformity had been with him his whole life and not once did he imagine he could ever rid himself of it.

But here he was, staring at the perfectly normal, human face he had dreamt of. The living corpse was gone for good. Ah, yes, his beloved Songstress would surely adore him all the more now… yes…

His Songstress…

He turned himself from the mirror and gazed upon that bloodied mask one last time.

 

* * *

 

He’s heard how the other Servants describe him. It's nothing he’s not intimately familiar with: having so many people with their perfectly normal faces look down upon him and mingle with his Christine before his eyes. Yes, he's quite familiar with that!

Every little remark he manages to catch is mentally recorded without a second thought. Every time he speaks and someone's eyes widen in horror and confusion, he dedicates the scene to memory. All those little incidents he remembered, all for this one occasion.

For when he could peel back the gargoyle and finally show a human face to all the world, and to his Songstress!

“Phantom?”

He pauses in his step, and then turned to face whoever it was that called out to him.

It is the doctor. The two-faced one. The green-eyed persona is the one who's staring at him in what he could only guess was shock. In his hands was a tray with a cup and a few rolls on it.

Jekyll's mouth opens and closes a few times, and then he must have remembered himself. He brought his hand to his mouth to muffle the sound of him clearing his throat, and then began to speak.

“Do you know where the staff are? I figured they could use something since they, ah,” Jekyll paused in his explanation. It wasn't as though he couldn't tell why. Ah, yes, this was the part he expected when he finally rid himself of the deformed half of his face.

“Do you think the staff are hiding? How could you have difficulty finding them?” A grin spreads across the opera ghost’s face. His normal face. His unmarred face. “Are they not in their little meeting room? That place?”

The doctor stared at him in confusion for a moment, before pointing down the hall and asking, “Do… do you mean the staff room? Do you think they’re in the staff room?”

“What else would I mean?” He replies in an almost sing-song voice.

Jekyll's gaze shifted between him and the hall, and then the doctor nodded slightly. He walked down the hall, and the Assassin swore he could hear his fellow Servant mutter to himself.

Ah, he must have noticed his giddy behavior. He must have noticed his face! But such an achievement as this could surely warrant a little odd behavior as this!

But then his every behavior must have been odd. Yes, he was an odd man, even in life, the Phantom must admit this. He was a man that others would always look down on and judge him, even if it wasn’t his face they were gazing upon in disdain.

Hmm. Yes. An odd man. An odd man who had discarded his deformity and no longer had to care what anyone else thought of him anymore! All he had to care about was Christine! Christine…

He blinked, and then remembered. He was going off to see Christine to show her the face she could finally, truly love! No longer would she have to fear what he hid away, and no longer would she have to remember her lips meeting that hideous thing!

The Assassin hummed, and his walk down the hall to his Master’s room must have seemed more like a joyful prance. Along the way, he was sure a few other straying eyes caught notice of the absence of his bloodied half-mask, but he didn’t give them the attention he had given to the doctor.

All that mattered right now was his Angel.

It wasn't too long of a walk to his Christine’s room, but the jubilation he felt made those moments stretch out into eternity. Or perhaps it was… apprehension. A still gloved hand reached up to make sure his face hadn’t rotted and corroded somehow in his walk down here. Upon feeling no sign of his deformity, he spared a glance at his hands. If he could free himself from that hideousness, perhaps the wretched, rusty claws that were unveiled whenever he slipped those gloves off could be gotten rid of.

An entire world of possibilities laid before him. He never dreamt he could modify himself in such a way when he was alive, but… those Spirit Origins…

But that wasn't now. Now was presenting himself to his Songstress.

The Phantom couldn’t help the laugh that came out of him when he knocked on his Master’s door. Oh, the look of joy that he would be blessed with when the door was opened and a perfectly normal looking man stood before his Angel of Music!

Slowly, the door creaked open, and there was his angel, blinking the sleep out of their eyes. Those beautiful eyes that would no longer have to fear the horror he hid away. The eyes of the Angel focused on him, and that mouth from which the most heavenly voice came out of gaped open for a moment.

“Ph—Phantom? Your…” A hand almost reached out to his face, but it stopped midway. “Your mask…”

“Is gone!” The sound that came from his throat was half a laugh, half a joyous tune. “It is gone. I have no need for it anymore.”

“Don’t need it anymore…” His Master muttered, as though in disbelief.

Disbelief? Ah, perhaps the happiness was simply late in arriving. The mask must have been so ingrained into his Songstress’s image of him, that seeing him without it must have been a great shock.

If it took the Angel a bit to fully realize what he had done, then he would wait. He had… learned how his Songstress had dealt with a great amount of stress and pressure in the past, one way or another. So the best thing to do would be to wait. There would be no choice between the march or the mass here. In just mere moments the Angel’s eyes would light up and—

“... If that makes you happy, then.”

The Phantom blinked, snapping out of his reverie.

The joy he expected was not there. Instead, there was confusion, and then his Master was walking past him, rubbing those still sleepy eyes.

No joy. No exclamations of happiness. No gratitude, no relief from being able to look upon the face of a normal man and not a gargoyle.

Nothing.

The Assassin felt his face once more. It was still the smooth, non-deformed face he had so carefully constructed for himself. So, why…?

Red eyes stared at his Master’s retreating form. Perhaps… the sleep had made them lethargic. Hmm. That sounded...

And like that, his good mood returned. He laughed, he sang a wordless, happy tune, and then advanced in the same direction his beloved Christine went. The work he put in would be noticed, surely.

All would be well.


End file.
